for Lily (Guest)

Something was off.

Ilya didn't know when he got so good at reading Hollander. On the ice, this was a point of pride, testament to his skill. He knew how the other team was going to perform before they did. He learned the word for this: intuition. This was a feeling you could not explain, a skill that could not be learned. It came from the gut. It was a gift. That's what they told him, strangers, sportscasters, coach. Ilya's team believed in it as much as any locker room superstition.

Hollander disagreed. It's not some superpower, he would say, rolling his eyes. You're so full of yourself, Rozanov. You just notice things. You're not a god.

He sang a different tune on his back, when he was full of Ilya. But he wasn't wrong that Ilya noticed. Without meaning to, or wanting to: the line of Hollander's shoulders, how his eyes cut to the side. Quick, back again. Tension in his jaw when Ilya grabbed for it. Hollander's mouth parted so easy. He took a breath, and Ilya noticed. He almost said—then didn't.

Hollander had won tonight. Not easily, and not by much, but that didn't matter. Winning mattered. 0-1, playing out the clock for a miserable slog of a game? So be it. Ilya would take what he could get. Yeah, you would, Hollander had huffed. By hook or by crook.

It was a stupid saying, but Ilya liked how he said it. The shape his mouth made.

A win was a win. Take it and go. Hollander didn't think so; it was only worth celebrating if it happened on his terms, went according to his plan. It was only a win if he could feel like he earned it. So Ilya knew he'd be sour tonight. Frustrated. Unsatisfied. These were all good things in Ilya's book. This was raw material for the kind of fuck that they would both feel for days after. The kind of fuck that would tide Ilya over for another week, maybe.

But intuition said it was not that. Hollander's mouth didn't give the way it should. He didn't squirm into Ilya's touch. He was hard, hips twitching as Ilya jerked him, but it was not quite right. Ilya let his callused thumb catch under the head. Hollander finched, and his cock jumped. But it wasn't quite—

Hollander's anger was not some unknown thing. Ilya cherished his stern brow while he fucked his throat. He liked to fist a hand in Hollander's sweaty hair and draw his red face up from the pillow so he could hear him cursing. Asshole, Hollander would hiss, when Ilya thumbed at where he speared him, stretched him just that much more, take it, like that, you're such an asshole—

He knew that version of Hollander—the one who would keep a frown on his face until Ilya stuffed him full of cock. The one who would squirm away from kisses, make Ilya chase. He knew how to treat him. Melt him. But this Hollander was different. Angry in a different way.

Ilya took his mind back over the last few days, searching for what could have set Hollander off. He hated this shit. Hated having to read someone's cold eyes and pointed silence. Hated to trace every step he had taken to try and figure out what he did yesterday, or the day before, the last time they met, the last time they spoke, what Ilya had said, what he hadn't. Back over days. Years. He hated that Hollander made him do this, controlled his mind in this way. He shouldn't have the power. He didn't have the right.

Still, Ilya thought. They hadn't seen each other for over a month, and then seen each other maybe too much in the past couple days. The Raiders had flown in early. He'd had half a day of training and then Hollander's empty little apartment. Ilya broke curfew because he could. And because Hollander was there, in bed. Because he was smiling.

They watched a video of a man who talked about frogs like it was most interesting thing in the world. It helps me sleep, Hollander explained. It's, like, peaceful. His voice is really soothing. Listen. He's famous for it.

Uh huh, Ilya said. What about my cock? Not so soothing?

That is not the word I would use, Hollander said. His smile made him look young. It made Ilya want a smoke.

But my cock is famous, Ilya told him, and Hollander rolled his eyes. His smile wobbled, because he didn't like to hear about Ilya sleeping around, but that wasn't anything new. And Hollander wasn't angry then, that night; the video was still playing, droning on, saying they are famous, these frogs, for their wrestling skill. But it is a civilized sport. His phone was propped up against the pillow while Ilya got dressed. Hollander was listening to his soothing man talk about frogs, but he was looking at Ilya. He said, bye. Ilya threw him a salute.

Was that it? He hadn't said goodbye? Maybe Hollander wanted a kiss. He liked to linger; Ilya knew this. He liked for Ilya to stay in him until it was uncomfortable. He liked to keep sucking Ilya's soft cock. He liked to say bye and then get down on his knees and make Ilya come again. Bye. Maybe Ilya had left too soon.

But that was only because it hadn't been a goodbye. They had a game the next day, and standing appointment in the evening. Ilya left smelling of Hollander and thinking of him, of what he would do when he saw him next. How many hours to go. Ilya texted him first thing in the morning, something he couldn't remember now. Something stupid. Something funny. He only got an eye-roll emoji in response. This was Hollander's go-to when he was too focused on the game to bother keeping up the conversation, but too much of a polite young man to not reply.

Hollander had been focused. He played well, even if you couldn't say the same for the rest of his team. But Hollander wasn't angry about the game; Ilya's gut told him that. On the bench, there had been a furrow to his brow that said, I'm going to win. He wasn't even looking at Ilya. That was Shane Hollander, Captain of the Metros, about to jump the boards.

Ilya didn't exist to him. Hollander didn't know how easy he was to notice.

What, then? Busy with his team on their way out, then the press. An hour passed, two. Ilya left his hotel room with no notice and no excuse. The team expected it of him now. Maybe Ilya should have been used to it too, but his body didn't agree. Heart behind his teeth, every time Hollander's building came into view. Ilya hadn't texted when he showed up; he knew where to find the key. Had he said something, when he opened the door? He didn't think so. But Hollander had been off from the go, from the second Ilya walked in and walked up to him and tucked his face into his neck. What, then?

Not everything is about you. Oh, Ilya knew that. Very little was about him. But Hollander, here, when they were like this—this had to be, didn't it? Wasn't this the one thing that was?

Ilya kissed him and Hollander kissed back. It wasn't right. Frustration swelled behind Ilya's ribs. He jerked Hollander faster, shoving aside the briefs he'd never bothered taking off. Maybe it would be better, if Hollander came first. He didn't like to get fucked so soon after, but Ilya could wait. What was the time? It didn't matter. He could wait.

The kisses were slow. Thorough. Ilya abandoned Hollander's jaw to free up a hand so he could tug at his balls, roll them in his palm. Hollander made a noise, low in his throat.

"Hey," Ilya said, mouth at his ear. The soft, sweaty place behind it where he liked to kiss. He had watched Hollander scrub at it very diligently, many times. It tasted like skin. The tip of Hollander's cock was wet, hips twitching. Ilya twisted his hand and made it rougher. "Ok?"

Hollander said nothing. His eyes were closed, nostrils flared. He looked like it felt good. He looked like he was going to come. Then, maybe—he would soften. Maybe he would tell Ilya what he had done wrong.

Ilya kissed his throat, then bit. "Hollander?" His mouth was already swollen, red like he'd been sucking Ilya's cock for hours. From just a few kisses. With his brows tense, jaw tight, he looked—Ilya didn't know the word. It wasn't pretty. Svetlana was pretty. Sasha was pretty. The women Ilya picked out at clubs and bars and games, they were pretty.

Hollander was. Ilya didn't know the word.

"Yes?" Ilya mumbled, kissing him again. "Is ok?"

"Would you stop it?" Hollander's eyes snapped open and the heel of his hand hit Ilya's shoulder, hard. "Stop asking me that."

"What?" Ilya said, somewhat stupidly. His hand was still on Hollander's cock.

Hollander's face twisted. He was looking at some point on Ilya's cheek. "Stop asking me if it's okay. If I want it. You're always, like—whatever. I'm not one of your fucking girls, okay? If I don't like it, I'll stop you. I can make you stop."

Ilya stepped in. That was instinct. Hollander's nails dug into his shoulder as he pushed him back. His mouth was tight. The swell of his bicep made Ilya want to bite.

"No," Ilya said, after it was clear Hollander wasn't going to say any more. "You are not a girl. You are big, strong man, yes? Even if you have this—" his free hand to Hollander's face, gripping his chin "—this pretty—" he wasn't pretty "—cocksucking mouth." Hollander wrenched his face out of Ilya's grip, so Ilya used both hands: one tight in his hair, the other back on his jaw. Squeezed. "Even if you bend over and beg to take my cock."

If I don't like it, he said. Hollander didn't know what he fucking liked. Not until Ilya showed him. Not until Ilya asked. He asked for a reason. I'll stop you. Would he?

"You think I treat you like a girl?"

It was the logical conclusion, but Ilya's mind was whirring. Had he said something? Was Hollander holding on to some stupid text from months ago, because he was fucking crazy? It was possible. Ilya didn't understand him. He had said so many things—said so many things, all the time, but Hollander should know better than to take him seriously. Had Ilya ever—

"Don't you?" Hollander's mouth was unhappy. "You don't have to be so careful. Nice, whatever. I'm a sure thing, right? You don't need to convince me."

"Now you say I am too nice," Ilya marveled. What the fuck?

"Shut up. I just mean—I'm not like them." He huffed out a little breath, like Ilya was being stupid. It never failed to make Ilya play stupid. "You can do whatever you want. To me. Stop fucking asking. Just do it."

Was that it—same old simple jealousy? Hollander wouldn't meet his eyes. Ilya hadn't been with a girl for—he couldn't even remember. It had been months. How did Hollander manage to work himself up? How did his fucking mind work? Ilya had caught him, once, scowling at his phone. At a picture of Ilya, over-exposed, outside some club. He had zoomed in on Ilya's hands, massive on some pretty girl's tiny waist. That is very old, Ilya had told him helpfully. Pulled out his phone while Hollander sputtered. You want to see latest?

Hollander had gone just as red then. He gripped Ilya's hand now and drew it away from his burning face. Ilya knew exactly how much force it took. His eyes had taken on that sheen that made Ilya a little dizzy, a little sick. Want cramped his stomach. He would eat him, he thought, crazed. If Hollander let him do whatever he wanted. Ilya would consume him.

"What if," Ilya said, and Hollander finally met his eyes. Ilya shook free of him and released the grip he had in his hair. Stretched his fingers. Then Ilya reached out and grabbed two rough handfuls of Hollander's chest. "What if I want to treat you like a girl?"

Hollander's eyes got brighter. His mouth dropped open.

"Fuck off."

It was so choked as to be noiseless. He slapped Ilya's hands away, then waited, one heavy beat, another. When Ilya didn't move, he put both hands on him and shoved. It wasn't playful. Ilya stumbled back a step before he caught himself. He reached out again, quick enough to catch Hollander's small, sensitive nipple and pinch.

Hollander's breath hitched. He grabbed for Ilya's wrist and dug his nails in. Squeezed so hard Ilya felt the bones grind, felt it in the base of his spine, sparking. Understood him at last.

"Rozanov." Hollander said it low, in his throat. A warning, maybe. It came too late. His eyes made everything an invitation.

"You said," Ilya told him. "Whatever I want. I want to touch your pretty tits, Hollander."

He twisted his arm to get out of Hollander's grip. Hollander was still hard, and his cock tucked right up against Ilya's hip when Ilya wedged a leg in between his. Maybe it was the sudden pressure on his balls that made him slow, the threat. Maybe not. Ilya knew how fast Hollander was. He knew better than anyone else on the planet. He knew what it looked like, when Hollander didn't want to be caught.

So this was what it meant, when he telegraphed every move. His shoulder to Ilya's chest said—hold me. His hand, shoving at Ilya's face—kiss me. His bite, quick and hard—kiss me. Kiss me. Kiss me.

"Stop it," Hollander said, but he said it how he said please. Ilya's heart was pounding. His teeth ached. It was a small miracle neither of them had lost their balance and gone for the ground. Ilya put his head down and drove Hollander to the bed, wrestled him onto his back. Pinched his nipple again, the same one, hard.

Hollander slapped his face. It wasn't gentle. It made the heat that had been coalescing in Ilya's face trip down his spine, and some muscle memory drove him to move. His teeth set into Hollander's shoulder and he heard the cry as if from far away, heard it, understood it. Please. It hurts. I want more.

It wasn't easy, getting his hands on Hollander's wrists. Pinning him down. A hard check during their last game had left a Philly defenseman with a wired jaw and Ilya with a twinge in his shoulder. He should take it easy. He'd thought tonight Hollander could ride him, and for once Ilya would lie back and let him. No throwing him around, no holding him down. Tonight you do the work, Hollander, he would say. I am tired from winning so much.

His shoulder screamed. Hollander didn't know about it, and Ilya wondered if it would have made a difference. The man underneath him now wasn't fair, sensible captain Shane Hollander. He was something Ilya had only ever seen in the mirror right before he looked away. Ilya drove his entire weight down onto him, and it wasn't enough, he knew it wasn't enough. His nails scrabbled at Hollander's wrists, dug into his pulse. And still, with a buck, a hard knee, Hollander could throw him—Ilya braced for it, held him tighter, fuck the shoulder, pinned him with his arms stretched tight above his head.

When he straddled his chest, Hollander shook his head. "Not like this. Rozanov. Stop it."

His voice was shot. Ilya wanted to stuff his cock down his throat.

"Oh, yes," Ilya said, tensing his thighs around Hollander's ribs, letting his cock slip against his chest, "yes, like this." He needed a hand free, to drive his cock where he wanted. But testing the grip on Hollander's wrists made it clear Ilya couldn't hold him with one hand, so he had to hump his chest, clumsy, tucking in tight. "You have good—what do you say? Good pair. I want to fuck them." Hollander bucked. Ilya wanted to reach back and grab his dripping cock. He didn't have any fucking hands. His cock was smearing precome all over Hollander's chest, leaving streaks. "You said, just do it. So. I am going to fuck your tits before I fuck your pussy."

Hollander's mouth went slack. His eyes—

You are not a god, Hollander told him once. But, oh. When he looked at Ilya like that.

"Will you take off your panties for me," Ilya said, "or do I have to rip them?"

Hollander didn't move, even when Ilya released both wrists. He was breathing through his mouth, quick, shallow. His arms stayed strained, fists denting the pillow above his head. Ilya shuffled down his body, resisting the urge to stretch his shoulder. Hollander's cock was so hard it looked painful, red and leaking. Ilya ignored it to yank his briefs down his legs. Hollander lifted his hips, very helpful, so Ilya didn't rip them. He let his nails drag, scratching as he went, as he came back up. Hollander was still, so still and so stiff, like he had melted right down. Candle wax. He would cry from that, maybe. If Ilya caught the underside of his arm, or his tight, sensitive nipples. The backs of his knees. Those wet eyes would brim right over.

"If you didn't make me wait," Ilya said, or thought he said. He couldn't be sure what was coming out of his mouth. Hollander had that glazed look he got when Ilya spoke Russian, or English too broken to be understood. He didn't wear it often, not anymore. Because it had been years, now, since Ilya—because it had been years. "I would lick you. If you didn't make me wait, Hollander. I would lick your pussy until you came in my mouth. I love the taste." Hollander's legs were pure muscle. Heavy, but so easy to move. "But now it is too late, because you made me wait. I don't have patience anymore. Now, I want to fuck. I want to fuck your little cunt."

One hand under his knee, and Hollander brought the other leg up on his own, all the way, tucked against his chest.

"You're wet enough," Ilya said, thumbing at his hole. Lube tacky, because Hollander had prepped for him despite his upset. Ilya's thumb sank in to the knuckle, and he hooked it, tugged. "That's good. You can take it." And then, mocking and not, because he couldn't fucking help himself. "Ok?"

Hollander made a sound Ilya had never heard before. He did take it—the blunt nudge of Ilya's cock, relentless, the unending press. He bore down and took it until Ilya was in him all the way, seated. Ilya's throat was so dry. Blood pounded behind his eyes. It made his vision pulse.

"Good," he managed, drew out and snapped his hips. Once he did it, he couldn't stop. "That's good. Take it. You said I could—so take it, Hollander." He couldn't wait. He couldn't slow. Hollander tipped his head back and broke the grit of his teeth to gasp, a wet, hungry noise that hooked Ilya in the gut. His wrists were still on the fucking pillow. Ilya fucked him harder. "That's it. Take it, sweetheart. Let me fuck you. That's it." He reached out to grip Hollander's chest with one hand and nearly lost his balance. Slipped out, but only for a second, only a second until he fucked back in. He couldn't hear the sounds Hollander was making over his own panicky heartbeat, but Hollander's mouth was open, his eyes were open. He was looking at Ilya. "Good," Ilya said. "Thats it. Good girl."

Hollander closed his eyes and came. Lovely, Ilya thought. That was the word.

Come had strung all the way to Hollander's throat. It landed, hot, on the back of Ilya's hand. Hollander was breathing hard, as hard as Ilya, shaking with it. His jaw was clenched tight. Tendons stood stark at his bared throat. Ilya was pounding him, careless, and Hollander didn't like that, didn't like to get fucked after he'd come. Ilya knew this. Because it hurts, Rozanov, he had told him once, frowning in that serious way of his. But Ilya fucked him, and he took it. If I don't like it, I'll make it stop. Jesus, Ilya thought. He was going to come. He was going to come apart. What would happen then?

It was endless. Then Ilya registered, one at a time: the silenced headboard, his aching soles, something beeping in the kitchen. That was Hollander's heart, thumping wildly under Ilya's palm. Those were his eyes, smeared wet under Ilya's mouth.

His skin was so hot. He was straining to breathe under Ilya's weight. Ilya was straining, too.

How to close the wound? Ilya was the wound. It felt like there was no part of them that wasn't touching. Ilya kissed the corner of his mouth. Hollander made a hiccupy noise that Ilya swallowed. It took a very long time to uncurl Hollander's fingers. Ilya did it one at a time, and stayed in him until he was done.

In the bathroom, he threw away the condom and washed his hands and his face and sat down. He couldn't catch his breath. There was a stylish chrome clock hanging above the vanity. Ilya couldn't read it. His eyes wouldn't focus.

He shook out his hands and thought of Hollander's fists on the pillow. His hands must have cramped. Ilya's were numb.

Hollander squeezed a stress ball to help him fall asleep. It was one of many things. He might not be able to use it tonight. Maybe it would hurt too much. The stress ball was yellow, with an angry face on it. Looks like you, Ilya had told him, when you make that—yes, that face.

By the time Ilya came out of the bathroom, Hollander had come upright. He was leaning back against the headboard in the way he did. Stiff, square, the most unnatural way imaginable. The sheet was drawn up over his lap.

Hollander cleared his throat. Looked somewhere over Ilya's shoulder. Tried a smile.

"Bye."

Ilya could feel his pulse in his fingertips. They should make a nature show about him, Ilya thought, feeling mean. His chest hurt. Someone's soothing voice should explain Shane fucking Hollander to him.

"What, bye? Where is my consolation prize?"

Those eyes came back to him. He had taught Ilya the term, some years ago. For when I win, he said, but you still want—

A thousand thoughts flickered over Hollander's face. Ilya wanted to dig and dig and dig until he'd unearthed them all. His bare hands in the open, bloody maw of Hollander's chest. That's what he wanted.

"I want to see my friends, the frogs." Ilya came up around Hollander's side of the bed. He shoved him until he moved into the wet spot, and ignored the way his hand trembled. "Hurry up. Where is your phone? Put it on."

It didn't take any time at all, for his shoulder to relax under the weight of Ilya's head.

Whatever you want. Hollander couldn't have known. But he would learn.

Ilya: good luck

Ilya couldn't remember now what he had wished him for. Hollander hadn't replied, which was new, but not surprising. One of the many videos that he sent and Ilya ignored was titled hermit crab changes shell SLOW MOTION. Is you? Hiding? Ilya had texted back. What the hell does that mean, Hollander demanded later, when Ilya slipped into his hotel room. We're both hiding, asshole.

It is compliment, Ilya said, pulling him onto his lap. You are fast. You have many legs. Hollander rolled his eyes. You climb all over me, Ilya told him, and he had. Arms over Ilya's shoulders, hands in his hair, on his face, clutching his back. The start of a smile pressed to Ilya's mouth.

Hollander must have arrived in Boston by now. He was sitting in his hotel room and staring at his phone, same as Ilya. Headphones on, pink from the spin bike and a late shower. He wouldn't touch himself, because he was too polite to tell his roommate to fuck off. Ilya did not have this problem. He fucked his fist and let the screen blur and thought of Hollander stubborning himself to sleep. Ilya would wake up to a text tomorrow morning. Room?

He was halfway right. He did wake up to several texts. None were from Hollander.

"Hey, Roz!" Marleau's knock was so fucking loud it shook the room. "You up yet? Give your arm a rest, eh?"

Ilya threw a shoe at the door as reply and blocked his brother's new number. Alexei and Marleau could both go fuck themselves, and so could Hollander, if this was the game he wanted to play.

They only got so many chances to see each other. If Hollander wanted to sacrifice one of them because he was feeling shy about being fucked so good he cried, that was fine by Ilya. The suite he had booked wouldn't go empty. It had a hot tub that seated four, and his Boston regulars hadn't heard from him in a while. Let Hollander curl up in his little shell. Ilya would call his bluff.

His team didn't need pep talk to play their hardest against Montreal. Ilya gave one anyway. His phone was in his bag, in the stall, where he'd chucked it without looking. That was where it would keep. Whatever had been churning in his chest that morning was gone. Vanquished.

Hollander's mouth guard was already in. He was staring at the ice, sun-burnt across the bridge of his nose. Ilya was going to win this face-off, and then he was going to win this game, and then he was going to go up to the hotel room he'd booked two weeks ago in the city he fucking lived in and fuck beautiful women who loved him until he passed out. Hollander's jaw ticked. His eyes flicked up, just once.

good luck

"Twenty-ten," Ilya said, as the puck dropped.

Ilya told himself he'd take his time, win or lose. The afternoon slot afforded him that much, and Hollander wasn't going to be in any rush.

He was at the hotel by eight. Drew the curtains and turned up the lights. Drank half a bottle of water. Eska Natural Spring Water. Hollander had signed on a sponsorship deal last year and carried it around wherever he fucking went. He had left one bottle behind with Ilya, which now had a permanent residence in his duffel. The team thought it was lucky.

Hollander had only taken one sip from it before tossing it aside. Wrinkled his nose, wiped his mouth. Dumped it out and refilled it from the tap. I hate the taste, he complained. There is no taste, Ilya said. It's water.

No, Hollander protested, the water at our cottage—my family has a cottage. That water, it's the best. It tastes sweet. Not just saying that because I grew up on it. It really does.

Wow, a cottage, Ilya said, as dry as he could make it. Very nice.

Hollander flushed. Yeah, well. It was, yeah. I had a, um. Idyllic childhood, I guess. Those eyes ran over Ilya's face, quick, quick. Idyllic means—

I know what it means, Ilya said. He hadn't then. But he did now.

Ilya took off his belt. Put it back on. Why the fuck was he dressed? Why was he even here? Hollander hadn't said yes. He hadn't said anything.And the game—the game had been a shitshow from the start. If Ilya wanted to be bothered so badly, he should be bothered about that: 4-1 on home ice, and that one goal having been his only saving grace. No text. Ilya was pacing the length of the room and drinking so much water he'd had to piss twice already. For what? The chance that Hollander had heard him. That he might show. That he had wanted it, after all.

When Hollander arrived, the floor trembled. Ilya would understand later that was only breath leaving his body.

Hollander shut the door and turned to the deadbolt, like some reporter or a rabid fan or Hayden fucking Pike was on his tail and about to storm in, flashing camera in hand. He stood there, hand on the lock and leaned his head against the door. We're both hiding, he'd said. Ilya had a moment to wonder if he was about to walk back out, and another to come up with something that might get him to stay, before Hollander turned and sank to his knees.

"Fuck," Ilya said, but it was soundless. He crawled to him. Hollander buried his face in Ilya's crotch with enough zeal to make him stumble. His mouth was open, teeth set over the bulge in his jeans. Hollander couldn't work the belt open—why had Ilya put it back on? He was getting stupider day by fucking day. Zip down, Hollander mouthing him through his briefs. Not just the hot wash of breath, but his tongue to the fabric, wetting it, sucking on cotton for a taste. Did you skip dinner, Ilya wanted to say. You're starving, Hollander.

If he said it, Hollander would look up with those eyes of his. He'd try to talk back, but Ilya would shove his cock into his mouth, hand on the back of his head. Hold him there and make him choke on it until wet spilled over, tracked down his cheeks. There, there. How Ilya had heard Americans say, soothing a child. Don't cry. Eat up.

Ilya didn't have to touch him tonight, because Hollander was on him before he could get his voice to work. Fingernails dug into the back of Ilya's thighs. Hollander's throat closed around the head of his cock. He choked, then moaned. Choked himself again. Ilya found the curve of his skull and fragile sweep of his ear, then the corner of his wet mouth. He should say, did you miss me? He should laugh. It would make Hollander blush hotter. It would make his mouth water. Slow down. Did you miss me? Did you miss me so much? Ilya opened his mouth. Took a breath.

Hollander swallowed him down. Ilya could hear the room spinning. What was that noise? Was that his heart? Every muscle cramped. Hollander was holding him up, sucking kisses into the base of his cock, his too-sensitive balls. Ilya made a noise without meaning to and Hollander looked up, wet-eyed, and Ilya saw then, the hand he'd had shoved down his own pants. Brought out, covered in his come, to wrap around Ilya's cock.

It could have been minutes or hours. Ilya came all over Hollander's red, swollen mouth and Hollander sighed. Sucked on his come-streaked lip. He'd never taken off his pants. Ilya wanted to strip him down and eat him until he said no, no, stop. Then do it some more.

Come to bed, Ilya wanted to say. I want to—

"I have to go," said Hollander. His forehead was still pressed to Ilya's hip. He was mouthing absently at whatever skin he could reach, like he couldn't help himself. "It's Mitty's birthday. They rented a room and all the guys are—I had a hard time getting away. But I wanted to—" He rolled his face into Ilya's thigh, then pulled back. "I can't stay."

"Relax, Hollander," Ilya said, proud to sound easy, and not like his heart was in his throat. "Is fine. I am very satisfied." He nudged his bare foot between Hollander's spread legs and pressed up. "Don't have cash. Or I would tip."

"Shut up," Hollander said, and smacked his foot away. "Asshole."

When he stood, he had a grimace on his face that wrinkled his nose. He had come in his pants sucking Ilya's cock. Just like that. Ilya dug his fingers into the back of the couch to keep from reaching for him.

Hollander stepped in. For a kiss, Ilya thought. Nearly strained for it. But Hollander only looked at him, and cupped a warm hand around Ilya's cock and tucked him back into his briefs. Pulled up his jeans and buttoned them. Reached for the belt laid across the back of the couch, then thought better of it.

"Ok, so. Bye."

Ilya took his bottle of Eska Natural Spring Water to the bedroom. He slept in his clothes.

Jane: See you soon.

—

Soon was the right word for it. There were only eighteen days until they were back in Montreal. How many hours was that? Who the fuck cared? Not Ilya.

"What are you thinking so hard about?" Sveta gripped his jaw to jerk his face from side to side. "You look serious."

"What are you wearing?"

He hadn't meant to ask. But she seemed pleased. "You like it?"

Sheer fabric just barely hit her thighs. Her nipples looked even darker through the lace, tightening under his attention. When she climbed into his lap, Ilya saw the trim had satin roses, and little bows. She'd worn it before, or something like it. It bunched easily in his fist.

"It has a funny name. Babydoll. Don't tear this one, I will fucking gut you."

She smelled like sweat and hair spray and the fruity perfume she had worn for as long as he had known her. Signature scent. Ilya tucked his face into her neck and took a breath.

He had asked Hollander once, when he'd wanted to get a reaction, what he liked about girls. Hollander's brow tightened like he'd heard the word for the first time. They're nice, he said, I mean, they smell nice. His eyes cut to the side. Back again, like he was fighting the line. What do you like? About, uh. Girls?

Everything, Ilya had said. Just to see him look like that.

Ilya: i want you to ride me next time

He got a reply a week later, in Pittsburgh, while they were suiting up.

Jane: If you win.

Ilya didn't care for Pittsburgh, but only in the way that he didn't care for any city but Moscow. There was one highlight: a boutique in The Strip District that he'd been introduced to years ago by an older socialite who liked to be fucked wearing pretty things. Expensive pretty things. Every purchase came gift-wrapped in gauzy paper, tied off with a little black bow. Satin, like the ones on Sveta's dress. Babydoll.

Ilya: when i win

Ilya made the mistake of unwrapping it, and couldn't fix it up again. The box had been too big, anyway. If it was going to look messy, then let it look messy. He picked out the comics section of a discarded newspaper in the hotel lobby and wrapped it up. Hollander liked Peanuts. Ilya was very thoughtful.

It burned a hole in his jacket pocket while he sat in the taxi, fingering the paper's edge, trying to map the lace. I'm not one of your girls, Hollander had said. I'm not like them. No. Hollander wasn't like anything at all.

He wasn't there to greet Ilya at the back door this time, which might have altered Ilya had he been paying attention. But he wasn't. Ilya's hand was in his pocket. He dug out the key from under the filthiest mat he had ever seen, and what felt like a thousand flights of stairs he covered in under a minute. His heart had been racing since he got in the taxi.

Hollander opened the door and retreated. Ilya had only stepped inside and he was across the way somehow, behind the counter, out of reach.

"I won," Ilya said, because he had. And because he couldn't find the words for anything else.

He was expecting the quiet congrats Hollander was always too polite to deny him. And a kiss, maybe, from a sulky mouth. But Hollander only crossed his arms over his chest and licked his lower lip.

Then he said, "I don't want to fuck tonight."

Disappointment was Ilya's namesake and his oldest friend. But Hollander must have spoiled him in ways he hadn't noticed, over all these years of nothing that was so clearly something, because Ilya had stopped expecting rejection. The sound of it froze the smile on his face and lit a match in his belly, hot enough to wind through his chest and come out of his mouth.

"Okay," Ilya said, and walked out.

If Hollander said something, he didn't hear it. He didn't even hear the door slam over the pounding in his ears, the clang of every footstep on metal grate. He had left the building and was crossing the lot, taxi on the way, when he got the text.

Jane: Why did you leave?

Ilya wouldn't answer. They had spoiled each other, clearly, if Hollander thought Ilya was on the other end of this leash. His taxi pulled up to the curb. The screen of his phone dimmed, and a twitch of Ilya's thumb lit it up again. Jane was typing. Then not.

"Fuck." His breath fogged the air. "Fuck!"

He tossed cash at the taxi driver for his trouble, because Ilya didn't have a fucking sorry in him. His face was hot, sweat slicking up his spine like he was playing overtime, heart pounding, pounding. Across the fucking lot again. Key under the fucking mat. Leave it under the mat, Hollander had said, make sure. Ilya let his fist bang on the door once, hard. Closer to a punch than a knock. It fucking hurt.

Hollander's eyes were bright. He stood toe to toe with Ilya and was shorter by maybe an inch. But he looked small, when he scowled like this, and crossed his arms over his chest, and raised his chin.

"What the fuck was that, Rozanov? You left just because I said I didn't want to fuck?"

His nostrils flared. Ilya wondered if he was closer to crying or swinging for him. Ilya's tongue was too big for his mouth.

"No," he heard himself say. "Fine."

"What the fuck is your problem?" Hollander demanded.

You make me crazy, Ilya thought. I don't know what you want. I don't know what I want. You make me feel like—

"Sorry," he said, and it sounded as stupid as he felt, like he'd slipped back into the shoes of a boy who had nothing but bravado to cover up the lack. He bit his tongue to keep from saying it again, from saying it over and over, until Hollander touched him.

"Because we can do other stuff." Hollander's arms were still crossed, but his mouth softened. Ilya's stomach lurched. "I can suck you. And you—" His voice dipped, careful. Uncertain. "—you can suck me. My cock."

He grew so quiet Ilya only saw his mouth shape the word. His eyes were on Ilya's chest, dead center. He was standing in a way that Ilya recognized, quite abruptly.

"Yes," Ilya said, mouth dry. "Okay." He shrugged off his jacket and let it fall to the floor.

Hollander gave it a look. Bit the corner of his mouth. Ilya caught him by the waist as he came to pick it up and pulled him in until they were notched together, hip to shoulder. Ilya's thumbs came to rest on either side of his navel. Big hands, little waist. He squeezed, and Hollander's breath hitched. Ilya took it from him in a kiss.

His shirt was soft. Blue, yellow lettering nearly faded. MBA McGill. Ilya had seen him wear it before, when he'd lost at home, like he needed some extra comfort. Under Ilya's palms, the hot skin of his back was softer. Hollander was tense as Ilya stroked up his spine, distracted, hands restless on Ilya's shoulders, half-wound around his neck. Ilya's thumbs dug into the dimples at the base of his spine. Slid under the waistband of his sweats to cup his ass, even as he made a protesting noise against Ilya's jaw.

Ilya slid his fingers between his cheeks and found there the hot, swollen center of him.

"Why prepare," Ilya asked him, mouth to jaw, "if you don't want to fuck?"

Hollander worried at his lip. "I didn't."

He was so loose, so ready, two of Ilya's fingers sank right in to the knuckle.

"You didn't?" Hollander shook his head. Ilya fucked him with his fingers, rough, until he started to shiver. "Oh, no. You just get wet, don't you?"

"You make me," Hollander said, nearly soundless.

Ilya's cock jumped. He screwed his fingers in hard. "Tell me."

"You make me," he said, breath hitched. "Wet."

"I know." Ilya's wrist was starting to ache. "I can feel it, sweetheart." Hollander flinched. He didn't like that word. Ilya knew he didn't, but he could never seem to bite it back in time. "You're dripping."

"I can't help it." There was an edge to Hollander's voice that made Ilya's head swim. He heard it when he teased for too long, when he'd held Hollander on the edge with little butterfly touches. Fucked him with just the tip of his cock, popped the head in and out again until Hollander was clawing for him. Whiny. "I can't help it."

"I know," Ilya said. "I want to fuck you." Hollander squirmed in Ilya's grip, but his eyes were dark, and a flush had risen on his face like they had been fucking for hours already. Gone. Ilya's fingers slipped out and his hips twitched back, seeking.

"No," he mumbled against Ilya's jaw. Louder now. "No, I don't want," but Ilya kissed the rest quiet. Hollander sucked on his tongue like it was his cock, sharp edge of a canine glancing off in his eagerness. Ilya rubbed the pads of his fingers over his hole, over tender, flinching skin. It was so fucking easy to get inside. How long must it have taken him? Had he been thinking about this, opening himself up for Ilya, while he gave his captain's speech? Had he cut short commiseration, those glazed answers to the press, thinking—

"Rozanov," Hollander said, breaking from the kiss. His mouth was shiny from spit, red. And his eyes. Lovely. "I don't want to fuck."

"But I have to," Ilya said, and cupped the underside of his ass, the backs of his thighs. Hauled him up. "I have to fuck you. Can't help it."

Hollander weighed two hundred and four pounds. It wasn't effortless to carry him when he wasn't resisting, but when he was—doing stupid shit like this was what got you injured. The sort of strain that Ilya could buckle under if it bore down on him for too long. Hollander's ankles at the small of his back, heel kicking. Ilya must have jerked off a hundred times thinking about the thighs that gripped his waist. Hollander twisted, arm to Ilya's chest, and Ilya walked the squirming mass of him one step. Two. They wouldn't make it to the bed.

He caught an elbow to the ribs throwing him down. Then his hand on the back of Hollander's head, shoving it into the sofa cushions, kicking apart his legs. Smothering the no.

Was this what Ilya was meant to do, the last time? I can't stay, Hollander had said. And he had looked at him. Should Ilya have understood what it meant, that look, those careful hands? Tucked him in, zipped him up. So neat, Hollander. Everything in its place. I can't stay. Ilya could have caught him at the door. Held him there with one big hand on the back of his head. Hard pressure. Into the cushion. Up against solid wood. Bruised his lovely face while Ilya yanked his pants down over his ass. They would tangle up his legs. Ilya didn't care. As long as he could fit his cock between his cheeks as Hollander tensed and shook.

His hand was gripping the side of Hollander's face. Not careful. Not pretty. Thumb hooked under his ear, palm over his jaw. The full weight of him, shoulder to wrist, grinding down. The head of Ilya's cock caught at Hollander's hole, and Ilya didn't tease, couldn't. Fucked in like he meant to, like he wanted to. Like Hollander begged him to with his tight jaw and wet eyes, the arch of his back, his legs straining to spread against the briefs caught around his thighs. Ilya didn't stop to breathe. It wouldn't help.

Ilya liked to fuck. He had done a lot of it. He liked to steal pleasure, hoard the good feeling. Some fucks were better than others, but they were always good.They always satisfied. It is just fucking, he'd told Hollander more than once. It's good. Simple.

It felt like his heart was beating somewhere outside his chest, pulsing in the air around them. Was that his heart, making the room shake? Could it beat so hard, and Ilya still live? The force of Ilya's thrusts rattled his teeth. Impact hurt his hip bones, made his balls tighten up, oversensitive. It must hurt Hollander, no matter how well he prepared, no matter how much he wanted it. Was this good? Was it simple? His stomach cramped in anticipation. Release came from the soles of his feet and strung him up.

He pulled out so he could peel Hollander up from where he'd fucked him into the couch. Flip him over.

"Fuck," Ilya gasped to see him. It wrenched out of him, the sound. "Fuck."

Come all over his stomach, smeared into his softening cock. The flush crested on Hollander's cheeks and spilled down to his chest, slick with sweat, heaving. Was it simple? Ilya didn't know. But it wasn't enough. Hollander moaned when Ilya reached for him, a small thing, fucked out. Ilya left wet, open-mouthed kisses on his throat, his chest. Groped for his tits, rough, hungry, and kissed him like he hadn't fucked in years, like there wasn't still a fucking come-filled condom hanging off his dick.

Hollander's hand was in his hair. On Ilya's shoulder, the side of his neck. Stroking. Ilya sucked kisses into his stomach, licked up his come. Would lick it from the sofa, too, if Hollander would let him. After. His soft cock in Ilya's mouth got a punched-out noise and Hollander's abs tensed, but Ilya was gentle, cleaning him. Long, thorough strokes of the tongue, no teeth. When Hollander tugged on his hair, Ilya went to meet his mouth.

He'd come so hard his vision was still blurry. He cupped Hollander's face so he could kiss him, so he would stay, long, seeking kisses that made his chest burn. Between their mouths, Ilya's fingers. Hollander sucked on them, sloppy, spit everywhere. Ilya wanted to crawl inside him.

He had to get rid of the condom. Ilya didn't think about what it took from him, to separate.

While Hollander went to the bathroom, he sank back into the couch and waited for his heart to slow. The shower turned on. Ilya could join him, once his hands stopped shaking. Once words came back to him, he step could under the spray and pull Hollander to him again. One more time. They had time, didn't they? Had Ilya wasted the last time? I can't stay. Should he have said—

What do you like about them, really, Hollander had asked him. His eyes always landed somewhere south of Ilya's chin, when he was asking questions.

About girls? Ilya asked, like he didn't know. But Hollander just nodded. The tip of his tongue peeked out to lick at the corner of his mouth. I mean, besides everything, he said, in that flat, stiff way that never landed as a joke but never failed to make Ilya laugh. Ilya had hummed, and dropped his head back on the pillow. Hollander sat very still, even when Ilya traced the line of his ribs with a finger, pinched his side.

They are soft, Ilya said, and Hollander nodded like he was in coach's circle, taking notes. Ilya bit back the laugh and trailed his hand over Hollander's thigh. Soft skin. Soft hair. Hollander kept nodding. Ilya was going to bite him.

Wet, Ilya said. I like wet. Okay, Hollander said, but it was only a breath. Ilya hummed. But I like most, how they make you worry. Hollander's brow knit. Worry? Maybe it is not the word. They make you…

What? Hollander asked, something desperate to him. It would have made Ilya hard, if he wasn't already.

Curious, Ilya said. If they want you. You have to watch. Worry.

Wonder, Hollander said quietly.

Ah. Yes. Wonder. They are not obvious. Ilya curled his hand around Hollander's stiffening prick, gave it a rough squeeze. Not like you.

Ilya had left his jacket by the door. He went to retrieve it feeling apart from himself, like he was in someone else's body, just come along for the ride. The paper was badly crumpled.

Hollander came out of the shower dried down, even his hair. He had wrapped a towel around his waist, like Ilya hadn't just had his cock in his ass. He took the mess of a gift silently. There was nothing to unwrap, though Ilya knew he would want to be careful. Hollander would like to peel tape apart with his bitten-down nails. Make sure nothing tore.

Ilya would tear into him. If he came any closer.

"For you," Ilya said, when Hollander had the bit of cloth in hand. His voice caught on the words, but maybe Hollander didn't notice. Maybe it wasn't obvious.

It spilled like water over Hollander's hands, nearly nothing. He had big hands, too. Ilya watched him stroke the fabric between his fingers and held his breath. He didn't know what to expect. That Hollander would turn red, yes, but he was already red. Ilya had fucked him to it, only a few moments ago. How long had it been? Seconds, maybe. Ilya would have believed anything.

He had thought Hollander might roll his eyes. His brows would draw tight, and his mouth set in that pissy little frown. Fuck off, he might say, and throw it back at Ilya's face. Asshole.

But Hollander only looked at it. He let the towel drop.

Ilya couldn't swallow around the lump in his throat. Hollander bent at the waist, precise, perfect, and stepped into the slip. The arch of his foot was pronounced. Ilya had kissed that jut of bone many times. Up, over his thighs, dangerous stretch. He had to squirm to get it up.

Because it was too small, despite Ilya's eye-measuring. It stretched too tight over his chest. Thin straps dug into the meat of his shoulders and Ilya had misjudged how long the thing was too, because lace that was meant to fall to his thighs only half covered Hollander's stiffening cock, kissed its swell. Hollander touched it, the lace, kept rubbing it between his fingers.

The rest of it happened in a lurch, time skipping ahead, like Ilya had forgotten to open his eyes. On the bed, the nape of Hollander's neck under his mouth, smelling like his bodywash and sharp, fresh sweat. He blinked up to Hollander's ceiling. It was painted cloudy sky. That's the name of the paint colour, Hollander had told him. Cloudy sky. It's supposed to help you sleep.

All you want to do is sleep, Ilya told him. Hmm? Should I go, Hollander? So you can sleep under cloudy sky?

No, Hollander had said. Too serious, before he caught the look on Ilya's face.

Ilya had won, so Hollander rode him. Flat on his back, cloudy sky above. Ilya roughed his nipples with the lace until he began to flinch, then did it harder. Pinched and dug his nails in. The little lace cups were delicate, not meant to contain the flex of muscle. Ilya drew Hollander down so he could put his mouth on him, get him wet. Suck sweetly, then suck hard. Bite. Straps dug so hard into Hollander's shoulders that they left a welt, stark red. How would Hollander explain that in the locker room? How would he explain the mark of Ilya's teeth?

The slip bunched up in Ilya's fist. He watched Hollander move, because there wasn't room to do anything else. His weight pinned Ilya down. Held him. Ilya tracked the sweat gleaming on Hollander's throat and every swallow. He tugged at the slip, strangely desperate to get to skin. Pulled it down so he could mouth at Hollander's chest, bare, hot, kiss him there.

It ripped. Hollander's breath held as he came.

Moscow was in bloom. Ilya was not paying any mind.

Jane: Are you still in Boston?

Ilya had been on the plane when he got the text. Headphones in, cap drawn down over his eyes. Nothing was playing; he listened only to the sound of his own breathing. On the flight home he had no energy for English. For any language.

Still, sending a reply would have been simple enough. One word. No. Hollander would never ask for an explanation. Ilya's thumb hovered over the screen. No, I am not in Boston. No, I will not see you for four months. No, I don't want to go. Ilya put the phone away and closed his eyes.

He didn't know why Hollander bothered to ask. Washington had taken them out in five. Maybe he thought Ilya would like to mope and drown his sorrows and kiss the President's Trophy while Montreal lead the charge. Maybe he thought Ilya would use this time to come to him. He could wait for Hollander in his empty condo in his empty building he still hadn't sold. On his knees. Winner's choice. Maybe Hollander wanted to gloat once more, in person.

But Hollander was not mean, and he was not petty. And he was not wrong, to think Ilya could have stayed a week, or two. He did not have to take the next flight out, packed and ready to go as soon as he walked out of the physical. But some switch flipped in Ilya's brain, as soon as hockey was out of the picture. He came off the ice and saw his father around every corner.

Ilya had finally hired a caregiver, back in March, since his father's protests had dwindled down to a tantrum or two a day. She had fifteen years of experience, could stay overnight on Sundays, and did not smile at any of his jokes. Over the grainy video call, she seemed unflappable. Ilya had ended the call and slept through the night for the first time in months.

His brother drove her to quitting in two weeks. Whatever money you are giving her, Alexei said, you might as well give me. I am the one he asks for. He doesn't want some stranger cutting up his food and putting him to bed. You don't want to be in the same room as him? You can't bear to see his face? Don't. I haven't forgotten how to be a son.

Oksana was too professional to call his brother a fucking asshole. She wouldn't come back, even for double the pay.

His father did ask for Alexei. He often forgot he had another child. But some days, he would ask for Ilya, and become enraged when he found a man instead of a twelve year old boy. Ilya came and left in the same breath.

Alexei's wife relieved him more often than not. She did not say much. You need to train, yes? She was not very careful with his father, but Ilya couldn't say he had earned it. Go, train. Your job is more important than mine. She always acted like he was in imminent danger of getting shipped back to Russia for good. This was the risk of having a good-for-nothing husband. All of your security came from the brother-in-law you hated.

Ilya needed to train. He needed to sleep. He needed to stop thinking. During the day, he ran until he couldn't feel his legs. The training rink took up his nights. And in the hours of early morning, Ilya sequestered himself in his old bedroom and watched Shane Hollander knock out team after team on the iPad he had bought for his niece. Montreal lost in the finals. Ilya fucked his fist to the look on Hollander's face and came so hard he felt sick.

Jane: Have a good summer.

Sveta wasn't around to show him one this time. Clubs in Moscow were more home than home, but Ilya felt oddly exposed without her at his back, the sharp point of her chin digging into his shoulder. She texted. He didn't text back. He drank, maybe too much. Hollander wouldn't, not even during the off-season. I mean, I'll have few beers, he had said with a frown. Cider, sometimes. Oh, wow, Ilya said, rolling his eyes and tossing back his drink. Cider.

He picked up a 24-pack of Canada Dry ginger ale from the supermarket. It was made even more disgusting for having been imported. Ilya cracked open one can and left the rest to sit in the fridge, where they gave him Hollander's accusing stare when he stumbled back home in the morning.

He had no intention of getting with Sasha. That would be a mistake from any angle. But Sasha's specialty was being there when no one else was, and he made for an easier distraction than the women Ilya picked up. Sveta would give him a look, if she knew. But she didn't know, because she busy chasing a girl who didn't want her up and down the Eastern Seaboard. So Ilya fucked him, pretty Sasha with the cool hands and knowing smile, and it was good, because sex was good, and Sasha was familiar. There was nothing left to peel apart.

Sasha liked having his throat fucked. Ilya gave him what he wanted. You can do whatever you want, Hollander had said. Not a tremble in his voice. Whatever you want. Sasha was pretty even when he choked. Calculated in that way. He knew what he looked like. Hollander would squirm even to see his reflection in Ilya's eyes.

You can do whatever you want.

After Hollander had steamrolled him in their last match of the season, Ilya put him in red. More lace, but only the flimsiest cups over his tits. A matching pair of panties that did nothing to cover his cock. And lipstick that Sveta had left behind in his couch cushions, on a whim, because it matched. Ilya hadn't thought the colour would be so shocking on Hollander's mouth.

It looked good. Hollander squirmed, rubbed his lips together. He looked like he wanted it off. Like his skin was crawling. Ilya wiped the head of his cock across his mouth. Slapped his face with it. The lipstick ended up all over him in the end, smeared on his balls where Hollander mouthed at him, where he'd kissed and bit Ilya's thighs, the cut of his hip. There was nothing left on his mouth, but Hollander went to the sink after and scrubbed at it anyway. Sorry, he muttered, when he saw Ilya watching. It just feels, I don't know. It feels weird. Ilya caged him in at the sink and kissed his sore mouth. Tossed the lipstick into the trash. Hollander's eyes went liquid in an instant. You do not need it, Ilya said with a shrug. Sucking my cock paints your mouth.

The tip of Hollander's tongue slid against his. He got back on his knees.

Women Ilya fucked, their mouths were red, too. Shiny. He texted Sveta back one night in July. When are you coming? Are you coming? Lipstick all over his mouth, his fingers when he hooked them behind Hollander's teeth. Come and get me, Sveta. Help me up. Sasha watched him as they kissed.

Are you still in Boston? Ilya closed his eyes. Summer stretched and stretched.

—

Instead of a room number, Ilya sent an address.

Jane was typing. Then not. Ilya stared at his phone for another thirty seconds and then shoved it in his bag and shoved the bag in his stall and went out to their first match-up of the season buzzing out of his skin. It wasn't the first time he had invited Hollander to his home. These hotel rooms, they cost money, Ilya had said. I am not like you, Shane Hollander, Prince of Canada. I am poor. Hollander stopped riding him just long enough to say, maybe you can sell your cars. Ilya flipped them over and shoved his smiling face into the pillow. Okay, one car, Hollander bargained. The Porche would cover it. Ilya could see the happy curve of his cheek.

He wondered if Hollander would protest this time. Too risky. Too obvious. Intuition told him no, just as intuition told him Hollander would play like a fucking demon on the ice. Boston lost to him, but not without a fight; 4-3 in overtime at least left their ego in tact. Ilya did not look at Hollander's face, not even when he gripped his hand and squeezed it, because he wasn't sure what Hollander might read on his. Good game. Did you miss me? Good game. Come here. Come to me.

When Hollander showed up, he had his hood on, cap underneath. Shoulders hunched like he was walking around downtown and not half a mile up a service road that led only to Ilya's house. He met Ilya's eyes, then cut away. His mouth went round on a wow. Windows. He shuffled inside and scrubbed his feet on the mat, then toed off his shoes, and Ilya watched him, struck silent by possibility. He could touch him now. And then.

"Did you eat?" Ilya heard himself ask.

Hollander looked as surprised as Ilya felt. "No," he said, then, "well, yes, I had a clif bar. Not dinner."

"I will make something."

Ilya was apart from his body, which was moving without his consent. Hollander made a noise of protest somewhere behind him, but Ilya was already in the kitchen, at the fridge. It was empty, save for a baguette and some cheese in plastic. Pickles.

"You don't have to," Hollander said, as Ilya turned on the toaster oven and rummaged through cupboards. Hollander's hands were bunched in the pocket of his hoodie. He looked warm enough. "Really. I'm not hungry."

"I am," Ilya told him. "Can I eat, please, Hollander? Do I have permission? Or do I have to fuck you first?"

"Shut up." The corner of Hollander's mouth twitched. He took a seat at the counter and didn't say anything when Ilya cut four thick slices of bread. He was looking at Ilya's hands. "Did you, uh. Did you have a good summer?"

"No. It was boring." Ilya waited for Hollander's eyes to flick up to his face. "You did not send any pictures."

"You never asked me to," Hollander shot back.

Ilya raised his brows. "You would send? If I asked?"

"What? No," Hollander said. His tongue swiped out to wet his lower lip. "Of course not."

"So, it was boring. I had some women, but." Ilya shrugged. Hollander was tracking the squeeze of lemon. "No one had tits as pretty as yours."

Hollander's breath didn't quite hitch. There were only two slices of cheese left. Ilya would go without, then. Had he ever seen Hollander eat a sandwich? He couldn't remember now. Ilya had put the thermostat up as soon as he got home. His heart was pounding for nothing. Maybe because it was so warm.

He turned to the put the sandwiches in the oven. Hollander made the sound he did when he wanted to say something but would wait until Ilya was paying attention.

"I, uh. I had some, too. Women. I mean, I had one." Ilya paused while he let out a hard breath through his nose. "I slept with one woman. This summer. Jackie—Hayden's wife, she introduced us. Her name is Lucy. She got her masters at McGill. Entomology. But she doesn't do bugs for work, uh. She's a hand model."

"Wow," Ilya marveled. "Did you fuck this woman or write her autobiography?"

"Biography," Hollander corrected him. "Auto means self. If you write your own, that's auto—"

"Hollander," Ilya said slowly, rounding the counter. He caged him in from the back, hands on either side of his, cheek to cheek. "I do not care."

"Yeah. Ok." Hollander took in a slow breath that rose against Ilya's chest. His eyes were closed. When Ilya gripped his jaw and turned his head, his mouth dropped open, waiting. Ilya gave him a kitten lick to his lip, just playful, and Hollander tried to twist to meet him. "You told me I should hook up with more people."

Had he? It sounded like something Ilya would say. He couldn't remember now why he had said it. He tightened his grip on Hollander's face to keep him from moving. Felt the shiver run through him. Ilya could kiss him, to shut him up. The squeeze of Ilya's hand made a pout of his mouth.

"Was it good?" Ilya's thumb at the corner, damp from spit. "She had good hands, this hand model?"

"Yes," Hollander said, "good," though Ilya did not think he was answering the question. The edge of his perfect, even teeth were under Ilya's thumb, before Hollander took in into his mouth for a sharp suck. Ilya felt it in his cock. "Rozanov—"

It was barely a kiss. Just the sweep of Ilya's tongue, Hollander chasing to keep it. The stool he was sitting on was low, so Ilya could grind his stiff cock into Hollander's hip. Hollander was squirming back into him, still trying to turn.

"Did she wear something nice," Ilya murmured. The shell of Hollander's ear was hot under his mouth. "Did you?"

Hollander went still. The oven beeped. Ilya released him like it cost him nothing and went to retrieve the sandwiches. He understood as he plated them that they were going to get cold.

Hollander's eyes were fixed on the counter. "There was a guy, too."

"Oh?" Ilya cut the sandwich in half. He had meant to go corner to corner. Didn't make it. "You were busy, Hollander. I am impressed. Did he fuck you nicely?"

"I fucked him," Hollander said.

"Oh," Ilya laughed. Hollander's brows knit, but Ilya couldn't have kept it in if he had tried. "I see. So, your cock got a workout. But your pussy, not so much?"

"Fuck you," Hollander said, standing. Then, like a challenge, thrown at Ilya's face: "It was good."

"You said that already," Ilya said, walking up until they were chest to chest. "Why do you sound surprised? Yes, sex is good. Sometimes," Ilya said, sliding his hand between them, dragging his palm over the tent in Hollander's soft, worn sweats, "it is very, very—"

Hollander kissed him. Ilya took him on the counter, bruising his knee on marble where it was folded up underneath him, off-balance on the one leg, straining to meet Ilya's thrusts. Ilya's hand spread between his shoulderblades, fisting in his sweatshirt, holding him down. Ilya's own pants were pooled at his feet, Hollander's sweats caught around one of his ankles. Ilya held him down with one hand and opened him up with the other, nails digging in to the meat of his ass, thumb hooked in the crease so that Ilya could stroke the tight, straining rim as his cock bullied in. Short, rabbity thrusts that made Hollander jerk, made his cock swing into the side of the counter. He came like that, on Ilya's cock, and made a fucking mess all over the floor, so hard and so much that Ilya did not believe Hollander hadn't been saving it for months. Saving it for him.

They ate the cold tuna melts in silence. Hollander cleaned up crumbs with the pad of his thumb, and put his plate in the sink. He looked good, naked in Ilya's kitchen. He had put some weight back on, filled out a little more in the chest. Shoulders. Four, maybe five pounds. The bras Ilya had gotten him might not fit anymore, or maybe they would, but strain so tight they would hurt. Hollander's nipples were puffy, sore-looking already, and Ilya hadn't even touched them yet. Maybe Hollander been pinching them, on his drive. Ilya didn't think so. He was the type to wait.

"Thank you," Hollander said, voice low. "For the sandwich. It was really good." His hands twitched at his sides. "Our flight, tomorrow. It's, uh. Later. It's at three."

"Come to bed," Ilya said.

Hollander looked good in Ilya's bed, too. Spread out in the middle, glowing from lamplight. Ilya ran his thumb over Hollander's cheek as he kissed him, like his freckles might smudge. Hollander was quiet, only breathing, even when Ilya played with his soft cock and scratched the inside of his thighs. Left long, sucking kisses over his chest, nursed on a sensitive nipple until his belly went tight and his abs flexed with every suck. Maybe they fell asleep. If Ilya woke, or he blinked, it was still to Hollander's skin, to his scent. Ilya's face tucked under his arm, one hand cupping his cock. It was filling out, if reluctantly. Ilya tugged on his foreskin, rolled it back to pet the over-sensitive head.

Hollander's hand clenched in his hair. Ilya kissed him until he relaxed, then gave his cock a rough squeeze. His brow knit, but he arched into Ilya's mouth. Whatever you want. Ilya wanted to kiss him. So he did.

Arousal came in waves, swept him this way and that. Ilya did not know what time it was and had no desire to find out. Hollander's dark eyes tracked his face, from his brow to his nose to his mouth. Back again. What are you thinking? Ilya wanted to ask. Tell me. I want to know what you think about.

Maybe he said it out loud.

"Who do you like better?" Hollander asked, muffled against Ilya's temple. His chest rose a little faster. "Guys, or."

When Ilya pulled back, Hollander's eyes dropped to his chin. Ilya ducked to catch his mouth.

"Better? Why do I have to like better?"

"It's a hypothetical. If there was a guy, and there was a girl. And you had to choose."

"Both," Ilya said, with a shrug. "I am fucking them both." Hollander huffed from his nose and didn't kiss him back. So Ilya lifted himself up and looked at him properly. "What do you think bi means, Hollander?"

"I know what it means," Hollander said, a little snappy now. "But if you had to pick one."

Ilya feared the answer was so stupidly obvious that it showed on his face. But Hollander continued to frown at him, sleepy and half-hard and serious. Ilya was too warm.

"Depends."

"On what?" The look on Hollander's face said Ilya was being uncooperative, and he was getting annoyed. Ilya's cock twitched. "They're both equally attractive. You like them both. Equally. But you have to pick one. Gun to your head."

Ilya had played many stupid games in his life. "Depends," he said, "on who begs harder for my cock."

Hollander, who had been holding his breath for the slow stretch of Ilya's response, let it out in a rush.

"Oh, fuck off."

He tried to squirm upright so Ilya pulled him over, let Hollander's weight drop to the cradle of his hips. Rocked them together while he grabbed two handfuls of Hollander's chest and squeezed. Hollander bit his lip when Ilya strained up to kiss him. A little bite, but hard. Ow, Ilya mouthed, and Hollander bit him again. Ilya swiped his tongue over the sting and Hollander swiped his out to meet it, and they kissed like that, wet, messy, deep, while Ilya groped for his tits and plucked his tight, sore nipples.

"Who are you tonight," he murmured into Hollander's mouth, between one sucking kiss and the next. "Hm? Guy, or girl?"

"What?" Hollander pulled back, looking hunted. Ilya caught him by the waist and rolled them.

He was heavy. Ilya felt the strain in his back and clung to it. In this light Hollander's eyes looked even darker, wide and wet. He was so far away. His heart was beating so hard against Ilya's chest.

"You can be Shane," Ilya said. Their noses knocked together. Shane's eyes unfocused. "You can be good. Yes?"

"Yes," Shane said, but there was no sound.

"You can be good, and let me fuck you how I want." Ilya kissed the bow of his lips as they parted. Yes. Whatever you want. Ilya felt it in his fingertips. The soles of his feet. Whatever you want. "I want to go for as long as I can. You can come. But I won't stop."

Shane only looked at him, how he did. Like Ilya was something new, and strange, and powerful. Ilya put him on his belly and he went, shivered when Ilya trailed kisses down the long line of his back, then up again. Nosed into the sweaty hair at the nape of his neck. His legs were already spread. He flinched from Ilya's fingers, too sore, but squirmed back onto Ilya's cock. I don't know what you want, Ilya thought. But I want you. Shane's hands stayed flat on the sheets, on either side of his head. Tendons stark, fingertips white. He wouldn't touch himself, because he was close, and Ilya could see it in every twitch, every shaky, swallowed breath. He didn't want to come.

He gasped when Ilya reached for his cock. Finally. "No, don't—"

But Ilya held on to him with one arm around his waist and let his weight drive Shane down into the bed and worked his hand trapped between them over the leaking head of his cock. Slowed the fuck to a grind and worked him until Shane couldn't breathe enough to say no, until all that came out of him were shocky, hurt little sounds, until his cock pulsed all over Ilya's hand and he bore down so hard on Ilya's cock it almost made him come.

"Shane," Ilya pressed into the jut of his shoulderblade, his sweaty neck, as he fucked back in. "Shane, Shane."

He kept his hand wrapped around Shane's softening cock. Pulling away from the fuck drove Shane into it, and trying to squirm back fucked him onto Ilya's cock. Ilya had never heard him make this noise before, never felt him spasm quite this way. Ilya pressed in close, so close they would fuse, and he wasn't fucking anymore so much as he was holding, clinging, every muscle straining to get in closer.

Shane said something. Maybe please, maybe don't. It was broken, and when Ilya rolled his hips it broke again on a hitching sob. Ilya groped for Shane's face with his free hand and found it wet, cupped his palm over his chin and tucked a thumb into his mouth and felt him cry around it. His thighs burned. Ilya didn't know what he was saying, only that he hoped it was in Russian, that Shane couldn't hear him. Ilya could barely hear himself. Even Shane's muffled shout couldn't eclipse the ringing in his ears.

Ilya fucked him like that, hard, no restraint, until his body had dissolved and he was only as heavy as the air kissing Shane Hollander's tears.

They didn't move for a long time. Ilya drifted to the sound of Shane's breathing, the wet rasp as it slowed. His hand was still on Shane's face, and he couldn't think to move it. Didn't want to move it. Whatever you want. Ilya wanted to live along the edge of his jaw, notched up behind an ear. When he kissed his cheek, Shane turned to him and met his mouth.

It wasn't a long kiss, or a deep one. It was soft. Ilya's stomach twisted. He tasted salt.

Shane wobbled getting to his feet. Ilya saw the shift as he rose. The man he'd fucked to tears melted away to leave the one who had driven Ilya into the boards hard enough to snap his neck, not very long ago. Ilya wanted to touch, but he was too far away, then gone. The shower turned on.

Ilya forced himself to his feet and stripped the bed of the sheets. He hadn't made his own bed in years. His mother would have scolded him. Shane probably did it every day, first thing in the morning. Maybe he would want to do it in the morning. Ilya could help.

New sheets were in the closet. Ilya's shoulder ached reaching for the top shelf, and kept aching as he snapped the sheets, tucked them in. Shane's shower was going long. How sore was he? Too sore to sit through his flight? They played Tampa in four days. Ilya had fucked him to sleep before, but never this hard. Maybe he would be hurting too much.

Ilya did not have a stress ball, or cloudy sky on the ceiling. But he had his phone, and it played Rainforest Vol 3: Nature's Relaxing Sounds. He dimmed the lights to near nothing and dragged the coverlet back on the bed. The pillow was marked by Shane's spit, the imprint of his teeth. Ilya rubbed at the wet spot and felt a little dizzy. Frogs croaked. Birds chirped. It was raining, in the rainforest.

Shane came out of the bathroom and wouldn't meet his eyes.

"Hollander," Ilya said.

"I have to go," Hollander said, and Ilya waited for the excuse as he tried to unlock his throat. Waited for whatever stupid thing Hollander had been working up to in the shower. Crabs are skittish by nature. Poor little guy, he got spooked! But he looked at Ilya with his bright eyes and didn't say anything else.

Ok, Ilya should say. Bye.

Instead, he said, "Shane."

"I have to go." Shane took in a slow, shaky breath. Ilya held it. "I can't do this. I'm sorry."

—

Ilya didn't hear them call his name. He couldn't hear anything over the thump of his own feet. Blood buzzed. Ilya turned up the speed. He could go faster. I'm faster than you, Hollander had said once, too confident to dismiss. Oh, you think so? In the dead of night, in the freezing cold, they had set their paces in the lot of the building Hollander kept saying he was going to sell. Next year, mumbled into Ilya's mouth. For sure, next year.

Ready, Ilya said, breath fogging, get set, and Hollander took off. He was faster. Ilya caught him anyway. You cheat, Hollander? Ilya would have faked outrage, but couldn't stop smiling. You know how? Hollander had been laughing too hard to reply. Ilya laughed too, when he could breathe again, and they knocked into each other getting back inside, numb from the cold. I learned, Hollander said, into the kiss. From you.

"Oh, no way," came someone's voice, rising above the rest, half laughing. "No way that pussy bagged that pussy!"

Ilya would not see the headline until after the game. That was for the best.

Is Rose Landry dating NHL star Shane Hollander?

The rumors did not stay rumors for long. When Boston played Montreal in November, fansites were crawling with pics of them outside restaurants and clubs, Rose Landry shielding half her famous face with one hand. Nothing to hide her wide smile. Hollander did not look at Ilya when they faced off, or when Ilya slammed him into the boards. Not when they were benched and the rest of his teammates were red with rage from Ilya mouthing off. He looked straight ahead. Nothing would break his focus. Ilya checked him in overtime and took the winning shot. Hollander wiped at his mouth and Ilya's teeth ached. Good game, he said, staring at Ilya's chin, hand in his hand. Ilya couldn't make himself say it back.

By December, they weren't trying to hide. If Hollander's smile began to look strained, no one noticed. Maybe that meant Ilya was imagining it. He wanted Hollander to be miserable so badly that he stared at his sweet, blushing face and believed he knew what he was really thinking. As though Ilya had ever known what Hollander was thinking.

Ok, so, I have to ask, said a reporter. Hollander, sweaty and half-dressed, had not been expecting the question. Sorry, I'll be quick, but Rose Landry, man, what does she see in you? It was hard to catch Hollander off guard. As much as he hated the cameras, he was too well trained. You would have to ask her, he said. Ok, man, give me her number. Hollander smiled at that. Even, sweet. Signature. MLH's Most Approachable. MLH's Most Down to Earth. Everyone's favourite.

Ilya had made him laugh so hard he choked. Then choked him until he cried. Ok, one more, one more question. It's Rose Landry, right, I know, but what was it about her that made you go, ok, I have to shoot my shot? Hollander's eyes unfocused. He was looking at the camera and gone somewhere far away. Yeah, she. Uh, she smells really nice.

Rose Landry thought this was very funny. Clips of her reaction played every time Ilya dared to look at his phone. But Hollander wasn't laughing. He wasn't happy, was he? How could he be? His new girlfriend was very famous and very pretty and smelled very nice. But she couldn't hold him down and fuck him how he liked. She couldn't slap him until he got very quiet and went very far away. She couldn't know what he wanted, when he looked like that. When he said what he meant, and when he didn't.

Everyone said they were going to spend Christmas break together. That meant it was getting serious. They were spotted at the Rockefeller Center rink the day before Montreal trounced New York, 4-0. For the first time in his life Ilya commiserated with Scott Hunter. In the WAG box, Rose Landry wore Hollander's jersey. It was stupidly big on her. So was his hand, on her waist, on her cheek. That kiss got the crowd roaring.

Ilya turned off his phone.

"Hey, Roz. Coach said to take it easy tonight."

Ilya looked up to find Marleau hovering at the door of the weight room. "Are you Coach?"

Marleau sighed and came inside. He was the only one brave enough to tail after him, and even he looked apprehensive. Ilya did not know why. They had all played well. He had celebrated the win with them in the locker room and gave the media their sound-bytes, as crass as ever. Everyone was smiling and laughing and shaking their heads. Ilya made sure of that.

"Long game today," Marleau said. "And tomorrow you got that CCM thing. Won't get much shut-eye. But you're going to need it for Sunday, man. Hollander's on a fucking rampage, you know?"

Ilya pulled the pin and sent the bench flat. One-eighty until failure. He might stop thinking then.

"Did you get in a fight or something? With your girl?"

"What?"

Marleau looked like he wanted to take that back. "I mean, I don't know. You seem down, man."

"We won," Ilya said blankly.

"Not like that," Marleau said. "Down, like. Sad, you know." He took a seat on the bench opposite and leaned down to retie his sneakers, so they wouldn't have to look each other in the face. "You always kill it out there. It's not like that."

Hollander thought it was funny, how Ilya's team hung on to his every word. You are jealous, Ilya sniffed. I am very popular. He expected more teasing, but Hollander only shrugged. Yeah. They love you. He was like that. Earnest in ways you never got used to. The ricochet of your heartbeat before a frozen plunge. Because I help them win, Ilya said. He didn't know why he wanted to argue it. He couldn't look at Hollander's face for too long. Leaned down to bite his shoulder, set his teeth in. He didn't have much hope it would distract him. Nothing could distract him.

No, Hollander had said. They love you even when you lose.

You think I am good captain, Hollander? Ilya played up the accent to make him roll his eyes. Yeah, you're okay. Better than you? He was smiling very big. Ilya was hot, and cold, and hot again. In your dreams.

"There is no girl," Ilya said to Marleau's frowning face. "There is no fight."

"Ok. Alright, man."

Ilya did not believe that would be the end of it, but Marleau only opened his mouth, then closed it. But the way he sat back said he wasn't going to leave.

Ilya huffed. "Are you going to spot me from over there?"

Marleau perked up. He didn't ask any more questions, but Ilya heard more than he wanted to about the woman Marleau had been seeing on and off for the last couple years. Try eight, Ilya thought. Then he remembered that his on and off was off, and there was not going to be another on. Marleau liked this woman, maybe loved this woman. But could she handle the lifestyle? Let her worry about that, Ilya dismissed. You worry about your backhand.

They come to you for advice, Hollander had once asked, dubious. Really? I give best advice, Ilya said, not a little offended. Like what? Ilya rolled them over and slid down his body until he was at the edge of the bed, then off it. Tugged him close, legs over his shoulders. Like do not text if you can call. Uh huh. Hollander wanted to smile, but his mouth was too slack. If you were wrong, Ilya intoned, say the words. Ilya bit the inside of his thigh and he arched. Wow. What else? Like Ilya couldn't hear the strain in his voice. I'm taking notes. Ilya got his hands on the back of his knees. Folded him up. Eat her pussy whenever you can, he said, and gave his hole a long, sucking kiss. Eat it like you're starving.

He went a day, maybe two, without looking. That was an improvement. Days of quiet and one headline rose to the top. Rose Landry, draped over a dirty sofa in an ice blue set of lingerie, bra and thong and garter, was the new face of Agent Provocateur.

Iya pulled the emergency stop on the treadmill and laughed himself sick. Then he drank until he passed out.

—

Sveta came for to stay for Christmas break. Ilya did not know if it was for her or for him, but she brought with her a stout, ugly little tree she had cut down herself. She forgot the lights, and the tree looked so dull and lifeless in the middle of his living room that Ilya went out into the holiday crush to get them. Plain, traditional. When it was all done up it looked too much like the tree in Hollander's empty apartment. That one year. Which one? It didn't matter now. One of those years, Ilya had walked across the frozen lot and up the stairs and stepped inside to find the place lit up. Hollander didn't even live there. Yeah, he said, well. I'm here now. Ilya couldn't believe he had put it up for that night. That moment. But Hollander's eyes told him so, the shy curl of his mouth, his fingers on Ilya's wrist.

It was pretty. Hollander was pleased to hear it. The one at Hayden's is so crazy, he said. The kids got to decorate it, so there's so much stuff. Too many colours. I can't look at it. His eyes were closed. Ilya watched him glow under the golden light and forced himself to rise. Get dressed. You are boring, so you like boring things, Ilya said. Hollander smiled. Yeah. What does that say about you?

Ilya sent his brother money before he had a chance to ask. He would sell a car or two. Ilya doubted it was enough, but for once Alexei did not reply with a complaint. He did not reply at all.

Jane: Merry Christmas.

Ilya deleted the text as soon as he saw it. Then he wasted half an hour looking up how to bring it back. Christmas in December was not Christmas in the true sense, but it was what Ilya got time for. Sveta wanted to see people's gaudy yard ornaments, so they went to Somerville. Too much stuff. Ilya couldn't get away from his fucking voice. He had been sleepy, slurring the words. Too many colours. Ilya scratched at an itch on his neck until it bled. Practice started back up. Sveta stayed. Ilya couldn't bring himself to ask her who she was doing it for, if that meant she would leave. And when.

"Get off," she said, kicking at him. He slid back, uncomprehending.

The look she gave him said they were not going to resume, so Ilya sighed and rolled off the condom. Dropped it off the side of the bed. A few hours before his cleaning lady arrived, guilt would drive him to pick up the empty cans and wet towels and condom wrappers. But that was a few days out, and his body was too heavy now to do much more than sink back into the pillows and watch Sveta get dressed.

He was happy to let her do what she wanted, as long as she was quiet. When she started slamming drawers so hard picture frames rattled, he had to work himself up to his elbows.

"What the hell is wrong with you?"

The silent glow from the tv haloed her where she stood. Beyond her slim shoulders, Ilya could make out the blurry outline of his favorite celebrity power couple. They were coming out of a hotel in St. Louis, where Ilya could not imagine any filming had ever taken place. Rose Landry's primary occupation seemed to be holding Hollander's hand. Hollander was favouring his right side. Ribs, maybe. Ilya had only watched the highlights. How many times didn't matter. His eyes were too tired to read the chyron, but he could guess what it said. 'Going Strong' After 3 Months: 'Things Are Serious' Says Close Friend.

"Why are you watching this?"

Ilya shrugged. "It was on."

"I would fuck them," Sveta said, without turning around. "Rose Landry and Shane Hollander."

The both of them. Like they came as a pair now. "You'd fuck anything."

"Not you," she said cooly, turning to level him with a flat stare. "Not when you fuck like that."

"Talk sense," Ilya said, too tired to be annoyed. Hollander's face was half hidden by Rose Landry's hair. He had some in his mouth, his nose pressed to her shoulder. Still, he was smiling. "Where are you going?"

"Don't waste my time, Ilya," Sveta said, like she hadn't come to him for the express purpose of wasting time. Like they hadn't been doing exactly that for well over a decade.

"Ok," Ilya said slowly. "I am wasting your time. Yes. Because you are so fucking busy, with job you don't have, and friends who forget you exist, and girl who dumped you."

She gave him an amazed look, then shook her head. "There is no point in talking to you."

"So don't," Ilya snapped. As she left the room they took up the whole screen, outside some restaurant, talking sweetly. Still holding hands. They were surgically attached. Ilya's jaw hurt. "Are you leaving?"

"Yes." Sveta stomped back inside and threw a pair of jeans at his head. "Get dressed."

She took him to an exhibition in the Back Bay. Sveta cared for art even less than Ilya, cared for pretty much nothing except hockey, but it got them out of the house and enforced silence. Ilya's hoodie hid his curls but did nothing to warm his ears. If he was recognized, it was not by anyone who cared. They were herded around a little room like rats in a maze and Sveta frowned at every painting like she knew what she was looking at. Ilya took a risk and touched her wrist when they paused in front of what could have been a rat, or a horse, or a house. Her fingers twitched back to catch his.

"What happened," Ilya said, low enough that she could pretend she didn't hear. But she shrugged, easy like Ilya had been trying to mimic for years.

"She didn't want me. What else?" Whatever the look was on Ilya's face made her mouth flatten. "It's not the end of the world, Ilya."

"No." Her wrist was so small. She was so much stronger than him.

"Nothing to mope about," she said, pointedly. "Or drink about. Or bitch about. Right?" When Ilya didn't answer, she turned back to the painting with a roll of her eyes. "I'm going home, after New Year's. I'm sick of this fucking city. This country." She snorted. "Maybe I'll get my old job back."

Jane: Happy New Year.

He should have blocked the number by now, but he couldn't even pretend that he wanted to. He dropped Sveta off at the airport. She kissed him and made sure people got a few photos of her tongue in his mouth, his hand on her ass. Ilya drove home and kept driving. Why do you go back to Russia, Hollander had asked, if you don't like it? It's home, Ilya said, but what he meant was, I go where I am wanted. When no one does, where do you go but from where you came? It's not the end of the world. It's not. It's not the end of the world. Ilya let her voice lull him. But he didn't sleep.

—

Jane: Hi. Your doorbell doesn't work.

It did. Ilya just wasn't home to hear it. The suddenness with which he rose from the table caught Marleau's attention. Ilya narrowly saved himself from banging his knee, but couldn't save his shin, or keep himself from cursing.

Smooth, Marleau said, but he was grinning, and turning away already, like he knew Ilya was a lost to them for the rest of the evening. It was a twenty minute drive home, doubled with traffic. Ilya could have used it to run through what he would say, the next time he saw Shane Hollander without a thousand eyes and ears on them. This was all he had been doing for months. He should have made a list, because he couldn't remember now. What he wanted to say. The inside of his mind was static. It was the middle of January and the radio station was still playing Christmas music for all the people who couldn't move on and never learned how to let go.

It wasn't until he went up the drive that Ilya wondered if Hollander would still be there. Of course not. It had been close to an hour since he sent the text. Ilya had never replied. There was no chance Hollander would camp out on his doorstep in the freezing cold, waiting for Ilya to come home.

There was no one at the door. Ilya got out of the car and chose to believe it was the frigid air that made his chest seize up.

"Hey."

Ilya turned. Only Hollander's eyes were visible, glinting from the bollard lights.

"Were you in the bushes?" Ilya asked stupidly.

Hollander made a face, but Ilya couldn't see most of it. The lower half was wrapped up with a fat scarf. He was wearing a puffer jacket, hood up. Gloved hands dragged the scarf down so he could sniff hard. How long were you waiting, Ilya wanted to ask of his pink nose. Did you see the sun set? How long would you have waited?

"Can we, um. Can we talk?"

Ilya opened the door. Their arms brushed as Hollander shuffled inside. Goose down and a layer of fleece, button-down and thermal underneath. It felt like nothing. It felt like skin. Stepping in after him, Ilya had a moment to panic about when the cleaning lady had last come and what he'd left littered around the bedroom. As if they would be going to the bedroom. Can we talk? Ilya didn't want to talk. He didn't know if he could bear it.

The house had the stale smell of empty takeout containers, greasy shit Ilya knew better than to be eating. Hollander would wrinkle his nose. They had been on the road for the last four games. Back home in time to host Montreal tomorrow. Ilya hadn't been thinking about it. Ilya had spent a lot of time not thinking about it.

Hollander hung up his jacket and his scarf. Took off his gloves and put them on the counter. Then he hovered by the sofa, waiting. Ilya looked at him for long enough that he firmed his jaw and sat.

"Sorry I just showed up. I should've checked in with you first. I didn't think. It wasn't planned, I just wanted to, um."

"Talk," Ilya finished for him, when the pause stretched. "So. Talk."

His voice sounded clumsy in the quiet air. Not even the air conditioner's hum to break it. Only their breath. Hollander was wearing a soft looking sweater Ilya had never seen before. Cashmere, maybe. When had he bought it? Maybe it had been a gift. Christmas gift. Ilya's heart was beating and beating.

Hollander looked at him. He was so familiar and so alien that Ilya had to drop his eyes first.

"I think I'm gay."

"Wow," Ilya said, instead of laughing.

Hollander's mouth twisted. "Don't—"

"Wow. This is—big surprise." Hollander's jaw was a line that waited out Ilya's teasing. But Ilya wasn't teasing. "You should tell Rose Landry that."

"I did," Hollander said. "She's the first person I told."

Does she know about me? Ilya bit it back. He would say congratulations, but he didn't like the way his mouth tripped over the word. If Hollander corrected him now, he might deck him.

"I am very happy for you both. And your dildo." Ilya let out a low whistle. "Big day for him."

Hollander let out a hard breath through his nose. Any other time, Ilya would have been thrilled to annoy him. The lump in his throat precluded any enjoyment of Hollander's mounting frustration. Ilya wondered if he would ever get to kiss him again.

"We're not together. Rose and I," Hollander said, very seriously. Slowly, like Ilya was an idiot. "I like men."

"Ok," Ilya said. He waved a hand in the universal gesture for go on. Hollander didn't blink and didn't speak. "Is that it?"

"No. I wanted to say—look, can you sit down?"

Hollander liked for things to be a certain way. The way he had imagined it. The way he had planned. Ilya could sit, and watch the tension bleed out of Hollander's shoulders, untie his tongue. Or he could cock his hip against the arm of the sofa and raise his brows and say, nope.

Hollander was breathing deeply. He had tried to show Ilya some meditation exercise, once. In, and hold. No, hold. Rozanov, if you're not going to take it seriously— Now he held for a count of thirty. Released. Stood and rounded the couch to match Ilya. If they were both standing, it was almost the same as sitting. So Ilya took a seat. For a wild moment, the look on Hollander's face made Ilya want badly to laugh. They could play this game for hours. Ilya would get to have him for hours.

But Hollander wasn't here for that.

"I'm sorry," he said. Standing there, hands at his sides. His big, dark eyes. Ilya shook his head, searching for meaning. Sorry—for what? Being gay? Liking men? And still not wanting— "For hurting you."

What? Ilya should laugh. You think you hurt me, Hollander? You think you can? But his throat had closed up, and it was too hard to get any air in his lungs, compressed as they were under the weight of his eyes. Heat suffused him. Ilya had felt this before, but even shame had never burned him so badly. What was the feeling? He couldn't make himself look away, even though he wanted to. His face was so hot. Hollander would see his red face and red eyes and know. He would see it all. He took a step forward. Ilya stumbled back.

"I shouldn't have left like that."

Okay, Ilya wanted to say. Shrug, easy. Yes. Bad manners, Hollander. I accept your apology. Then Hollander would nod, satisfied. Whatever guilt he had been carrying around thinking that he had cut needy, pathetic Ilya so, that would lift. And he would leave, and Ilya could go outside and put his hot face in the snow and let it melt him down until he was numb. It's not the end of the world.

"You cried," Ilya heard himself say. "You cried. Then you ran away."

"I'm sorry." He kept saying that. What did it mean? When would he stop? "But it wasn't because of—it didn't have anything to do with you."

Ilya laughed at that. "Oh, no?"

"No," Hollander said firmly, and then drew back into himself. "I mean, yes, it did, but not how you're thinking."

"How am I thinking, Hollander?" Ilya leaned back, let himself sink into the sofa as Hollander closed the distance one slow, measured step at a time. Telegraphing his moves, like Ilya was some frightened animal a second from bolting. Ilya wouldn't run from him. Ilya didn't run.

"Did you even like it?" He couldn't hold the words back. They pried his teeth apart to get free. Hollander would know that, too. "Did you want it?"

"What?" Shock made Hollander's mouth soft. Shane. "Yes. Yes, of course I wanted—I told you to." Confusion now, in the tensing of his brow. It drew a neat little line above the bridge of his nose. "I wanted it. I wanted you, I."

How many seconds to hold that breath? Ilya lost count over and over again. By the time he released it, he was close enough to touch. His hand hovered just shy of touching Ilya's shoulder. What permission did they need now? Ilya thought, hysterical. But Shane did not touch him. Only held his hand there, just shy.

"I like you." His voice cracked. "So much." At the shake of Ilya's head, his mouth twisted, a little wry. "Don't you like me?"

"Hollander," Ilya said.

His eyes dropped to Ilya's chin. Then swung up, like the drag of something heavy from somewhere deep, to look at him.

"Ilya. Can I touch you, please?"

His mouth was very soft. Ilya remembered. It wasn't until Ilya had kissed him that he realised maybe that wasn't what he was asking for. Maybe he had wanted only to put a hand on Ilya's shoulder, or curl it around his arm. Maybe Ilya should have just said yes, and waited, but the thought only had a second to live in the hitch of Shane's breath, because then there were hands on Ilya's face, and his soft mouth was kissing him back, breaking away only to say, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have. I like you so much. I'm so sorry.

Stop, Ilya wanted to say. Enough. But he couldn't remember the words to say it. Shane's thumbs smudged the corner of his eye, lingered at his temples. Ilya was being moved by the implacable shift of Shane's body. Somewhere. It didn't matter. Ilya would go where he took him.

"I missed you," Hollander said into a kiss. "I wanted to say that, too."

He was a heavy, unyielding weight on Ilya's lap. You have so many legs. You climb all over me. His hands in Ilya's hair, his jaw, cupping his face. Holding him still so he could press his mouth to Ilya's cheek and brow and chin, inflame the hot skin with his hot breath. He said Ilya's name and Ilya kept his eyes closed, so he could stay here, with him. In the dark, clinging. Underneath his palm, the bare skin of Shane's back was hot, too. Burning hot. Ilya dragged his hands up and tried to pull him closer, if there was a closer. Couldn't they get closer? Shane’s mouth stayed on the crest of Ilya's cheek. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I don't know how to say things, sometimes. I know I should. I'll try harder. I'm sorry. Ilya, Ilya. Don't you like me?

"I don't want you to touch anyone else," Ilya said. "Talk to anyone. Think about anyone. Only me." His face was tucked under Shane's chin, and Shane's day-old stubble was rubbing his mouth raw. Maybe Ilya would be too muffled to hear. Maybe he was talking in Russian, and Shane wouldn't understand. "I want to live inside you. All the time. Is this like?"

Shane's breath stirred the hair at his temple. "I mean, that's not the exact definition."

"Wow," Ilya said, pulling back just enough to look at him. His vision was blurry. "Joke."

Shane leaned their foreheads together. He was so lovely.

"I want to give you what you want," he said. "Whatever you want."

Ilya was sick from it. He made to duck his face into the shelter of Shane's chest, but a hand on his jaw held him still. Implacable. Ilya never forgot how strong Shane was, except how he had forgotten what it was like, to be something he wanted. The weight of his single-minded focus. Was he so strong? Or had Ilya become so weak? He couldn't move, couldn't breathe. Shane was so close now he was only a blur of skin. Dark eyes. His firm hold on the back of Ilya's neck. Whatever you want. Their heartbeat was the whole world.

The rest was only afterthought. Ilya couldn't keep count. One breath, one thousand. Skin to skin in the dark, Shane's body keeping him tethered. Maybe they were fucking. Maybe the slow rock of their bodies would reach a climax. Ilya didn't know. He only understood being surrounded. He tracked Shane's pulse with his mouth, pressed to his throat. I can't always, Shane murmured. Say. I can't always say it. But you know. You hear me. Don't you? The spot just behind his ear, that tasted most like skin. Ilya would live there. Shane stroked his hair and curled a hand over the ball of Ilya's shoulder, where he squeezed, rhythmic. He grew heavier in sleep. It grew harder to breathe. That was good, too.

Ilya woke in the middle of the night. There was an arm over his chest, a leg draped across his hips. He fumbled at the nightstand for his phone because he didn't know if any of it was real. He flinched from the light, forced his eyes to focus. 4:08AM. January 12. He had morning skate in four hours. They played Montreal today. Shane, because it was Shane, made an annoyed noise and tried to pull him back down. Ilya resisted just to see how hard he would try.

There was a text from his brother. They hadn't spoken in two months. Alexei had said only: thanks.

Shane was a furnace at his back. His tugging became insistent. Then a hand reached out and grabbed Ilya's phone and tossed it over the side of the bed. Ilya laughed, a little, hitching thing. Shane didn't like that. Shh, he grumbled, palm over Ilya's mouth, mouth on Ilya's chest. Sleeping.

Later, Ilya would get him on his belly, hook a chin over his shoulder and fuck him until he couldn't. He would miss practice and reply to Marleau's texts with a winky face. That evening, sore as Shane was, as thoroughly as Ilya had taken him apart, Montreal would knock Boston out 2-1 in overtime. Ilya would bite the inside of his mouth to keep from staring at Shane's smiling face, his bright eyes, his mouth when he said, good game. Good game. Later, Ilya would make him cry again, so over-sensitive and on-edge he'd flinch every time Ilya moved a finger. Ilya would wrap a pair of lace panties around his hand and jack him with it and call him sweetheart when he hid his face in the pillow and came.

But that was later. For now, there was the sound of their breathing in the quiet as it slowed. There was Shane's hand on his shoulder. Stay with me, Shane said. Here.

Ilya stayed. They slept.

i wrote this & posted anonymously not knowing what or how much i wanted to say about these characters. it was unplanned, unwritten, unedited, un-everything. it turns out i like them a lot.

i am so blown away by how many of you came along with me. thank you so much. i hope i've told you a good story.

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watch some frogs with shane